


See Me Through the Night

by nerdytardis



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, Light Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Romance, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7239754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdytardis/pseuds/nerdytardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some reason, Illya was fascinated by them.  He slept on his side so he could trace them with his eyes.  He knew that each told a story, but he never got the courage to ask.  So they never talked about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See Me Through the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago?? I'm still not really sure what it is but here you go ? ??
> 
> Unbeta'd as always, so sorry for any mistakes  
> The title is from "For Your Eyes Only" by Sheena Easton, because I love using James Bond songs for all my spy things

A patchwork of scars covered his skin, each looking nearly white in the pale moonlight.  All the way along his broad shoulders, down the gentle curve of his spine, the skin was marred by jagged shapes.  As his lungs expanded with each breath, they moved with him. 

For some reason, Illya was fascinated by them.  He slept on his side so he could trace them with his eyes.  He knew that each told a story, but he never got the courage to ask.  So they never talked about it. 

There were other scars, all across his body.  There were a few from knives, and the marks of a gunshot or two.  Illya had his fair share; he knew the signs of their profession well.  

But then there were cigarette burns and other poorly healed memories.  Sometimes when Illya would pull him close, he could feel them against his bare chest.  Though, for tonight, he just looked.   

Napoleon made a noise in his sleep, and Illya froze, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.  The bed dipped and the sheets moved as Napoleon rolled over, pulling the blankets up to his chin. 

He looked so calm when he was asleep.  There was no plastered-on smile, no hidden tension.  During the day he always looked too perfect, like a marble statue, but when he was relaxed, he softened into something warmer. 

Only Illya ever got to see him like this; the idea always made his chest flutter. 

Following the curve of Napoleon’s jaw with his eyes, he took in his whole face; the perfect cupid’s bow of his lips, his defined cheekbones.  Illya loved the way his hair, free from the product that normally tamed it, tumbled across his forehead in curly ringlets.  His eyelashes were really long, Illya had realized one day as they kissed in the early morning sunlight, and now he studied them some more. 

His fingers itched to touch that face, to cup his cheek and kiss him, but he held back.  Napoleon needed the sleep. 

Sometimes Illya would wake in the middle of the night to find him sitting by the window, staring at whatever city they currently occupied.  Other times he would find Napoleon at 2 am cooking or, on a bad night, drinking. 

It scared Illya.  The man that he loved was so haunted that he couldn’t always find a nights rest; it was a hard truth to take.  

It made it so much worse that he only knew part of the story.  For every torture Illya had been able to help him recover from, there were probably ten more memories from the war that just festered in his thoughts.  That wasn’t even bringing his childhood into it. 

Illya tried.  When he found him pacing in the dim light, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

The American looked at him, his face half obscured by shadow, and replied, “Go back to sleep, Peril,”

After all the time they spent together, he had grown almost used to it.  Anything was better than the cold, wordless goodbyes they used to share, when Napoleon had always refused to stay the night. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Napoleon had said, sitting on the edge of the bed, not looking at him, “It’s just sex,”

That was before an accidental bullet from Napoleon’s gun had nearly killed him.  Illya tried to be grateful, knowing that whole thing had proved to Napoleon that he could still care for another person, but he also knew that it was one of the things that kept him up at night.

It was after that incident that Napoleon started staying like this, spending almost every second he could spare by Illya’s side.  He admitted to both himself and Illya that what they had was important.  It was a turning point, a violent one, but still. 

When Napoleon started to get comfortable with the idea of being loved, by not just Illya but Gaby too, he started to open up in more ways.  It was mostly little things, like cooking Gaby’s favorite meal from home, or replacing a missing piece of Illya’s chess set, but every one spoke volumes. 

Illya, more than almost anyone else, knew that there was still so much that Napoleon wouldn’t face, but at least he was healing. 

He moved in his sleep again, mumbling something under his breath, and Illya was pulled from his thoughts back to the present. 

In front of him was a man, who through the circumstances of life had built himself into something cold and distant.  Under all those walls, Illya knew the truth.  He made a decision right there, with only the space between them to witness it. 

He was going to be there, to care for Napoleon and help him, until the day he died.  Illya loved this man, flaws and all, and he was going to do everything in his power to help him finish finding those lost parts of himself.

Napoleon’s eyes fluttered as he dreamed; a small smile tugged at his lips. 

The sight took Illya’s breath away.


End file.
